Suppose an American professor of archaeology is working on the grassy
expanse, collecting material for his new book; he looks up for a
moment and sees a pair of rustic lovers kissing in the twilight; he
smiles, and resumes what seems to him his important labor. Little
does he imagine that this love-scene is more significant than all
the broken bits of pottery he digs out of the ground; yet such is the
fact. For all he can do at his very best is to reconstruct a
vanished past, while the lovers are acting a scene that belongs to
eternity. Love is best.
LOVE AMONG THE RUINS
1855
I
Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles,
Miles and miles
On the solitary pastures where our sheep
Half-asleep
Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop
As they crop--
Was the site once of a city great and gay,
(So they say)
Of our country's very capital, its prince
Ages since
Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far
Peace or war.
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